


Steep to Taste

by knowtheway



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Interrogation, M/M, Marriage, Mind Control, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-10-05 04:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20483006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowtheway/pseuds/knowtheway
Summary: Awaking in the Spellman morgue had hardly ever been on his list of tasks to complete, but nonetheless that’s where he’s found himself now. Prudence and Ambrose, along with several reinforcements, had finally tracked him to the border of Egypt two days ago. It had been months of narrowly outwitting them and in a way, he was flattered by the number of troops deemed necessary to retrieve him. It’s not that he thought they’d never find him. In fact, he was sure they would. He just thought that by the time they did, he’d have already cemented the plans he’d set into motion long before he’d ever vanished.





	1. Ambrose

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! From tumblr - “Prompt: write the Ambrose torturing Blackwood story.”
> 
> It evolved into something more, but I hope you like it!

Awaking in the Spellman morgue had hardly ever been on his list of tasks to complete, but nonetheless that’s where he’s found himself now. Prudence and Ambrose, along with several reinforcements, had finally tracked him to the border of Egypt two days ago. It had been months of narrowly outwitting them and in a way, he was flattered by the number of troops deemed necessary to retrieve him. It’s not that he thought they’d never find him. In fact, he was sure they would. He just thought that by the time they did, he’d have already cemented the plans he’d set into motion long before he’d ever vanished.

The timing of their arrival was certainly suspect, though. Surely, there was a traitor in his midst, which is why he found himself so conveniently outnumbered – but that was a matter he would deal with later. For now, his main focus was escape – a feat none too likely to be easy.

Currently, he’s bound uncomfortably to a metal chair, the magic restraining him fortified with the power of at least 50 witches (from the coven he left for dead, no doubt). An ache in the back of his head throbs from the savage blow delivered by his daughter before all went black and the next thing he could remember was the cold air of the cadaver room and the incessant flicker of the ceiling lights.

He’s heard the noise of footsteps above him the past day, but has yet to see a single soul. Perhaps their plan was starvation – one he could find ways of enduring – but then, he knows they’ll still be looking for the twins. Or rather, Zelda will still be looking for the twins – for all her power, his wife was particularly weak for innocent children and far it be it from her to let a babe perish on her watch. As such, he knows they’ll need to keep him alive for information of their whereabouts, along with any other intel they may require of a Resistance. So, he has a bargaining chip – several, in fact. More than they probably even realize. That reassurance allows him a moment to breathe easy, but it’s just then that he hears a high-pitched creak of the door opening.

The bright light of the sun pouring in stings his eyes, and it takes a few moments after it swings shut for them to adjust back. When they do, he sees a smirking Ambrose half-knelt in front of him, holding what appears to be a plate of toast and a cup of tea. His stomach growls at the sight of it, but he has no intention of giving himself away that easily.

So he smirks back, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at him. “Brother Ambrose.”

“Father Blackwood,” he nods, gesturing broadly with the plate. “Splendid morning, isn’t it?”

Ah, so it’s to be a battle of wits, then. Though he’d expect no less – the Spellman boy has always been a bit of a showman and this false exchange of pleasantries serves him well. “Not sure I’d know,” he says wryly.

Ambrose chuckles to that, kneeling fully. “Quite right,” he places the plate on the floor and then brings the mug closer to Faustus’ face. “Well then, you’ll just have to take my word for it. Care for a spot of tea?”

Faustus raises a brow, his upper lip twitching slightly. “What kind of tea is it?”

Ambrose shrugs, feigning confusion by the question. “Why, Earl Grey, of course. With lemon,” he winks, “I remember how you take it.”

He pauses, surveying the boy’s face. “Are there any other… ingredients?”

Ambrose’s face falls in mock offense. “Now, Father Blackwood – you wouldn’t think I’ve gone and poisoned your morning tea, would you?”

“I’m not sure you’re prepared to hear all it is that I think, m’boy,” he says low, his eyes narrowed further.

“Hmph,” he replies, “Well, if you aren’t thirsty… “ He takes a satisfying sip and raises his brow. “I can certainly discard it.”

Faustus isn’t stupid enough to think that Ambrose sampling the tea relieves it of danger. Poisons have antidotes and the boy had many years of independent study to have known that and taken it before imbibing the drink. But then, surely he would also know that Faustus has that knowledge, too – that he’s built up a tolerance to hundreds of brews, so it would take the rarest of poisons to do more damage than a deep sleep. And those were even more difficult to come by than the city of Atlantis, so perhaps his thirst isn’t betraying him when he tips his head towards the cup and sucks in the warm drink that feels so soothing against his dry throat.

A small bit dribbles down his chin, but indignity is the least of his concerns and when Ambrose pulls the tea away, it appears he’s ready to begin with whatever interrogation he has planned.

“Let’s have a chat, shall we?” and he stands.

“No toast?” Faustus asks, mockingly.

Ambrose huffs out a laugh. “No, that’s a treat for later.”

“Oh?” he says. “How thoughtful of you.”

“I’d like to think myself a considerate gentleman,” he does a half-bow and then pulls a chair in front of Faustus, sitting with the back of it facing him, his arms propped up on the top of it. “So… tell me, Father – how did Luke die?”

Well, he’s wasted no time at all, has he? “… Is that something you truly want to hear, brother?” he says.

“What I want is neither here nor there. But I will have answers. How did Luke die?” he repeats firmly.

Faustus takes a deep breath and after an extended pause, he decides he’ll concede this now. Information on Lucas was innocuous – the boy was dead and had little involvement with the grander plans. If it afforded him some leeway, he’d indulge it. “Brother Lucas was murdered by witch hunters. The same hunters who took control of the desecrated Church the night your cousin and two others died and were brought back to life.”

“Doing what?” he asks, his tone steady and clear.

Faustus sighs. “Delivering a translation on ancient Runes – one of your translations – to the Church of Shadows. For peer review.”

“Which translation?” his words are more rushed now, his breathing becoming noticeably erratic.

“Is it of any importance?”

“It is to me,” and his eyes shoot the threat of daggers at him.

“Very well. The Rune of Legion,” Faustus says plainly, his brows knitting together.

Ambrose looks down at the floor, his nose wrinkling in confusion, trying to connect dots that don’t exist. “The demonic army passages? For what purpose?”

“At the Dark Lord’s request. So the purpose should be rather clear,” and he nods towards the boy, encouraging him to make the realization himself.

“The apocalypse,” he looks up, questioning.

Fautus nods. “You do understand, then.”

“Why Luke, though?”

“Because we’d been notified of the hunters’ presence and he was the most dispos-,” Faustus blinks, catching himself. He hadn’t meant to say as much. Perhaps the exhaustion and lack of food was making him a little more loose-lipped than intended.

“The most disposable,” the boy’s eyes brim with unshed tears and he nods with a morose sigh. “I see.”

He stands then, picking up the plate and turns back to Faustus, steeling his expression to apathy. “I appreciate your honesty, Father. Care for a bit of toast?”

“Are we to work upon a reward system, then? Positive reinforcement in exchange for information?” he asks, raising his brow. “With toast?”

Ambrose breathes out a small laugh. “Surely, you don’t think I’d find you so easily swayed. No - I’m only hungry and it seems rude to partake in front of a hungered man,” he picks up a slice and crunches into it, again displaying it’s harmlessness, and the sound of it makes Faustus’ stomach grumble again.

“Ah,” Ambrose says, taking another bite. “There appears to be a rumbly in your tumbly, sir.” 

Faustus sneers at the boy’s patronizing. “Well then, am I meant to summon it or will you be releasing me?”

“Now, that’s the spirit,” he jogs over. “No, I shall feed it to you,” and Ambrose’s brows raise with an epiphany, “Like a small fussy child!” he laughs, “So open up!”

It’s Faustus’ turn to shoot daggers, but as he opens his mouth to retort, Ambrose shoves a triangled crust into it with a very satisfied smirk. 

Faustus coughs, nearly chokes, but then begrudgingly chews the remainder of the piece and swallows.

“There’s a good lad,” Ambrose pats his head and Faustus would gleefully break the boy’s fingers right now if he could. Though, annoyance aside – he’s glad to have something in his stomach.

Ambrose places the empty plate and cup in the corner and then resumes his previous position. “Alright, Father – now that you’ve regained some strength, let’s continue.”

Faustus stays silent, awaiting the next inquisition.

“Explain why we found you in Egypt of all places.”

He presses his lips together in a sardonic smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would, indeed,” he nods.

“False hopes spring eternal just like the false God’s promises,” he states plainly.

“Ah, very true, very true. But then riddle me this, Father – where does the shame fall for a man who’s been fooled twice?”

“ … What?” He takes note of Ambrose’s smug tone, furrowing his brow.

“It is rather stunning how quickly a man can repeat a mistake, is it not? After Aunt Hilda served you her truth cake, one would think you’d have learned not to take what’s been offered to you,” Ambrose picks up the mug from the floor and takes another hearty gulp.

“Poison, after all…” Faustus smirks. “I’ll be of little use to you dead, boy.”

“Ah no, see – you’ve picked the wrong detail of the story. No poison - I didn’t lie,” and Ambrose leans in close. “Because I couldn’t. I could, however, spike it with candor serum.”

“You gave me a truth potion?” he laughs, the sound reverberating off the solemn mortuary walls. “As if I hadn’t cast a defense against such tactics months ago.”

Ambrose laughs now, too. “Yes, I anticipated that. Which is why I gave you a mortal brew. Because magical defenses only protect against magical attacks, you see?”

Faustus’s expression falls.

“Sure, the mortal’s draughts are much weaker, but they do the trick in a pinch. Just a bit of a delayed response. About fifteen minutes or so, which should be,” he flicks his wrist up to look at his watch, “Right. About. Now.”

Sure as the boy said the words, Faustus feels a cool sensation run down his spine and his eyes dilate to an uncomfortable degree – the lights somehow becoming painfully brighter.

“There we are,” Ambrose says softly. “So let’s try that again, Father. Why were you in Egypt?”

Faustus feels the words rising through his throat, wills them to stop, but despite his best efforts, he blurts out, “Gathering the demon princes of the seventh circle.”

Ambrose puts on a wide smile. “Oh? For what purpose?”

“To-“ Faustus breathes heavily, fighting with everything he has. “To resist... the Dark Lord.”

To that, Ambrose’s brow twitches. “Resist what exactly?”

“The war,” Faustus barely gets it out.

“What war?”

He locks eyes with Ambrose and all but berates him for what a fool he is even asking. “The apocalypse,” Faustus terses through his teeth, “Was never meant to result in heaven or hell as the reigning dominion over earth. The Earth requires us both.”

“Then... why blow the horn if there is no purpose?” Ambrose looks genuinely confused now, and even more intrigued.

“My boy, you didn’t think our Lord Satan and God Almighty would reign over their kingdoms forever?” 

“Actually, yes - I’m quite certain that’s all I’ve ever been told,” Ambrose quips.

“Well, you were told wrong,” Faustus coughs, a nagging tickle in his throat staying ever present. “Or rather - you were told half-wrong. A war between heaven and hell will meet on the soil of earth, but it shan’t be for planetary dominion - it shall be to select predecessors.”

“Predecessors?” Ambrose says.

Faustus chuckles lightly into another cough. “Why yes, of course - heir to the proverbial thrones. The one of most power, skill, diplomacy, agenda, rite - and so on and so forth - to lead the next generation and direction of their faiths.”

Ambrose pauses a moment, his eyes darting back and forth as carefully pieces it together. “That’s why you presented your manifesto. The Anti Pope. Why Sabrina was such a threat. You weren’t playing for a seat in Rome, you were playing for the seat of the Dark Lord himself.”

“Don’t get too carried away with yourself, boy,” and he coughs loudly now, a bit of blood rising from his throat onto his shirt collar. 

“Oh dear, it appears we’re running out of time,” Ambrose sighs. “Better make this lightning round count.”

He scoots his chair as close to Faustus’ exhausted face as possible. “Simple yes or no’s this time, Father,” and Faustus nods.

“Did you frame me and the two other Judas boys for the anti-pope’s death?”

“Yes.”

“Did you in fact kill the Anti Pope?”

“Indirectly.”

“Through the familiars?”

“Yes.”

“Did you order me and my cousin killed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hate the Spellmans?”

“No.”

“Oh?” Ambrose asks, shocked. “Then let me ask it this way - when I came to you and asked if you would ever ask me to hurt them and you said no... did you mean that?”

Faustus’ eyes are becoming unfocused, so he looks up at Ambrose through small slits. “I did.”

“But _you_ hurt _them_, didn’t you?”

“... Yes.”

“Who did you hurt?”

“Z... Zelda.”

Something primal and vicious rumbles from Ambrose’s throat. “What did you do to her?”

Faustus’ eyes become glassy and he fights hardest of all against this particular inquisition, “I... I... “ and he coughs again, this time blood pouring from his mouth.

“Ugh,” Ambrose sighs suddenly. “No time.”

He stands from the chair as Faustus continues to hack up the liquid in his mouth. Seeing him grab the tea cup, Faustus implores him, “Tea not poisoned?”

Ambrose nods, then picks up the plate of half-eaten toast. “Now this,” and he displays the uneaten pieces, “This was poisoned. Rest In Peace, father.” 

And he closes the door behind him.

———-

The next thing Faustus registers is a cool bit of grass under his hands and the squish of mud in his shoes.

“Ah, lovely jubbly,” the youngest Spellmsn sister hovers over his exhausted form, as mind attempts to make sense of where he is and why. “Welcome back to the living, my darling.”

Her bright smile deeply contrasts against his inner fatigue, but he reckons that means he must still be alive. “Oh yes,” the blonde reads his thoughts, “Fresh from the pit, dear. You didn’t think we were all done, now did you? No, we’ve loads more to discuss, you’ll see. Ambrose! Melvin!” She calls suddenly. “Take him in - same spot, make sure he’s comfortable,” she grins and shushes his attempt to ask questions.

“All in good time, love,” she whispers calmly - too calmly, “We’ll have a chat tomorrow you and I. For now... well, sweet dreams.” 

And Ambrose approaches just in time to knock him over the head with a very sturdy stick.


	2. Hilda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda has never struck him as a threat. In fact, he’s not sure she’s ever struck him as anything in particular at all. His interactions during their Academy days were limited to her being quietly attached to Zelda or Edward at mass, then withdrawing to the library or herbarium all other hours of the day. She was a solitary creature – and seemed content to be so, Faustus not being able to recall more than a few exchanges of words with her in the past century. The ambiguity under normal circumstances would be inconsequential, but now… well, he does recall Sister Shirley Jackson being found dead just after an evening tea with her, doesn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken so long, but I really wanted to get Hilda’s voice and motivations right. Hope I have and that you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

When Faustus awakes the next morning, Hilda is already hovering over him. However, this time – he’s strapped down to one of the embalming tables, his limbs bound so tightly that he can barely move an inch, though it doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Ah-ah now, love,” Hilda’s tone menacingly sweet. “We’ll have none of that. You just lay back and relax like a good boy.”

He huffs in frustration. “Do ‘good boys’ have to tolerate being patronized, Sister Hilda?”

“Oh yes,” she pats his arm, “They take what they’re given and are grateful for it.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh and then stares up at the ceiling as she worries about the room. He hears clinks and the rustle of materials, but can’t turn his head much to see what she’s up to and his mind can’t even imagine a guess.

Hilda has never struck him as a threat. In fact, he’s not sure she’s ever struck him as anything in particular at all. His interactions during their Academy days were limited to her being quietly attached to Zelda or Edward at mass, then withdrawing to the library or herbarium all other hours of the day. She was a solitary creature – and seemed content to be so, Faustus not being able to recall more than a few exchanges of words with her in the past century. The ambiguity under normal circumstances would be inconsequential, but now… well, he does recall Sister Shirley Jackson being found dead just after an evening tea with her, doesn’t he?

“I do hope whatever it is you’ve planned that you don’t think me stupid enough to imbibe further truth serums, Sister,” he says as she appears back in his line of sight.

“Oh, no need,” her eyes widen in delight, “No, no see - the Cain pit flushes out any toxins to bring you back whole and healthy, but anything else... anything harmless, stays well saturated in your system,” she giggles ominously, “That serum will be good for at least two more visits should it be required, my love.”

Faustus makes little effort to hide his slightly open mouth nor the bewildered look in his eye.

“Not only that,” she continues and he truly feels his anxiety begin to rise, “The Dark Lord blesses us all with certain _gifts_, as you know, and his gift to me... well, let’s just say it lets me get a peek into people’s thoughts. If I’d like, that is,” her eyes twinkling, “I’ll admit it’s a bit spotty at times, but uh… I may have slipped you a syringe of something to keep you honest. Just in case.”

Brow furrowed as he attempts to process all he just heard, he opens his mouth to ask a question, but she’s already anticipated it, demonstrating that she wasn’t bluffing (though he wouldn’t have thought so, anyway).

“You’ll find out soon enough – if it’s needed,” she smiles and pats him again.

Pulling up a chair next to him, she looks as though she’s there to soothe him rather than torture. It’s almost as if she’s supportively sitting by an ailing loved one, which is only further emphasized by the light humming that begins to escape her mouth. It’s entrancing – like a lullaby – and Faustus’s head lolls back onto the cool metal of the table as a sweet serenity washes over him.

His limbs feel heavy and the air around him seems to soften somehow, as if a rosy cloud has engulfed him. He feels relaxed, tranquil, unguarded... And all too late, he realizes that she’s used it as a distraction to plunder his mind – sorting through his memories like an old rolodex and with a swiftness so well-honed that he feels like he is racing against her within his own sub-consciousness. Surprisingly, she searches for no information on the twins, no curiosity about Edward nor potential involvement in his death, seems to take no interest in the reason he took off running in the first place. Instead, she seems to be looking only at interactions with her family. Her living family. She stops briefly at a memory of Zelda – it’s her and him dancing when they were far younger (and far more naïve) than they are now. Zelda looks nothing shy of radiant and there’s a spark in his younger self’s eye that he altogether does not recognize in himself. It bothers him, makes him feel uneasy... or what a foolish person might mistake for remorse. 

She lingers so long (for what reason, he doesn’t know) that he realizes his desire to not witness the scene before him anymore pushes back against Hilda’s magic. Seems to weaken her ability to stay in his mind. So he gathers a bit of strength and prepares to deliver a forceful ousting, but Hilda seems to be one step ahead of him and he’s suddenly siphoning through centuries of information behind her once again.

This time, she stops at a memory of Ambrose. His sentencing after his failed attempt to blow up the Vatican. Faustus had voted in favor of house arrest for him as opposed to death then, his leniency once again feeling foreign to who he is now. “_Who among us has not desired to defeat the False God’s _prophets?” he’d said proudly, “_Brother_ _Spellman simply acted on the thoughts of the many before him. And he did not act alone in this, proving it was a desire shared by many. Thus, I say death is unsuitable for such an offense._” It’s uncomfortable to watch and he can’t pinpoint why - and a tightening in his chest seems to signal Hilda to move on before he attempts to thwart her again. So she shifts to Ambrose’s more recent tribulations, quickly surveys their private conversations in his office, watches him select Luke for his mission. Then, they’re in his office again, Ambrose looking plainly tortured and seemingly grappling with some horrid inner torment. “_Forgive_ _me for the intrusion, Father, I just... I..._ “

“_You what? Spit it out, Brother._”

“_You would never harm the Spellmans, would you? Or ask me to... hurt them?_” 

Why had the boy asked him such a thing? He’d had no intentions of it at the time, no desire to use Ambrose as a pawn - in fact, the boy was far more valuable to him alive and in his good graces. The spells he’d translated alone were, in and of themselves, enough justification to keep him on his side. It wasn’t even a seed of an idea to frame him the way he had until after this conversation occurred. _Why did it?_ He feels Hilda’s confusion and unease sprout along with him, almost like they’re sharing states of consciousness, and before he can settle into the feeling too long, she’s tugging him backwards in time again. This time for Sabrina.

He had few interactions with her when shewas a child - only once or twice before Edward died. But Hilda seems to find one of interest to her. Zelda is holding a sleeping babe in her arms in the Spellman parlor, Sabrina no more than a month old. Faustus sits across from her just close enough to reach out and take her hand. He doesn’t recall this moment very well, but Zelda stares down at the child on the verge of tears. 

“_Edward has no clue what he’s done to this poor girl. She’ll never be one of us - not really - and she can certainly never be one of _ _ **them** _ ,” she says with a sharp inhale.

“_Sister, I understand your worries, I certainly have them, too. The risk this brings to us all... the coven was justified to react as passionately as they did,_” Zelda flinches, no doubt remembering the fire and pitchforks outside the Spellman house the night Sabrina was born. “_But the Dark Lord gave Edward the blessing himself. Why, right now he’s taken leave with the mortal to speak with him directly_,” Zelda’s eyes snap up in distress, “_Surely to discuss his plans for the girl. And the coven will adapt to our Lord’s will._”

Zelda seems to pause, both Faustus and Hilda sensing her hesitation, before turning her eyes back down towards the babe. “_I can only hope and pray to Satan that he finds a place for her. Sabrina had no choice in being brought into the world this way... _“

“_Hm, yes_,” Faustus nods and squeezes her hand, “_Well, I’ve no doubt, if she’s anything like her father, that there’ll be a place for her with us whether we like it or not. Why, she even looks just like Edward..._ “

Zelda smiles as one tear rolls down her cheek. “_Yes, she does._”

“_Let’s just pray to Beelzebub she doesn’t inherit his stubbornness or rash behavior,_” he laughs and Zelda does, too. 

“_Satan save us all..._ “ she whispers. “_Thank you, Faustus._”

Once again, he’s uncomfortable, and the strain of filtering through so many memories has drained him so that he can’t fight back against her, only silently plead for her to move on.

And she does. This time, the shadows that shift into place are of him and Lilith in his office before Sabrina signed the Book of the Beast. Hilda seems little more than shocked to see them speaking so casually, so... familiarly - he feels _her_ unease this time. Surely, their benevolent Queen had told her new disciples she’d once been trying to slaughter the precious Spellman lamb, too. Surely, they knew Sabrina’s signature in the Book was secured by more than one, secured by her. Hilda listens to every word, Faustus feeling her mistrust and anger grow by the second.

As if wanting to forget what she just saw, Hilda flits through to another moment in his office. This time - Sabrina’s challenging Faustus about her Academy schedule, Zelda defending her desire to study conjuring. 

That blasted Acheron configuration. He could have challenged her to produce an atronach, cast a protective ward, summon a change in the weather... But no, he’d given her Edward’s bloody irritating puzzle and - once she solved it - a reason to question his authority along with it. Which she did with increasing intensity in the same way Edward had - chipping away at his resolve little by little until he scarcely had any at all.

“_I’ve forgotten how fiercely maternal you could be, Zelda,_” he hears himself say and Hilda hangs on the moment, focuses in on the way he looks at her. He sees it... _feels_ it, too. 

And then suddenly, they’re still in his office, but on a different day. Zelda walks casually through the doors, “_You summoned me, your Excellency._”

_No_. No, she’s not allowed this. 

He struggles to block Hilda, gives it everything he has left, but she soldiers on as if he were nothing more than insignificant pest flying across her vision.

“_That’s the other source my reluctance. Back when we were at the Academy, Zelda, and Edward was my protégé - I confided in him that I planned to ask for your hand in marriage... “_

When Zelda turns around, he notices something he hadn’t before - were her eyes that glassy when he’d confessed this to her? Had he missed that entirely?

“_Faustus, you’re proposing marriage?_”

“_It is the Dark Lord’s will. We both know it. Perhaps it has always been so._”

When Zelda turns to leave him without an answer, Hilda seems to amplify the small pang of concern he’d felt in that moment. Concern she’d say no... concern it would actually... possibly... matter to him if she did.

And then the discomfort, the regret, the resentment, and anger surge through him with more intensity than he can bare and he’s pushing back against Hilda so hard that he feels a proverbial tear in his mind... as if lightning is striking all around him.

The sudden energy from him makes it difficult for Hilda to latch on to a single memory, but she scrabbles at the ones that fly past - all are of him and Zelda. The echoes of laughter, passion, tension, and arguments reverberate around them until Hilda is finally able to snag and ground them into a solid moment.

In this one, Faustus is knelt on the floor of his bed chambers, breathing labored as Zelda stands behind him with a cat o nine tails in hand. Fresh wounds mark both their backs and Zelda raises her hand to deliver one final, harsh blow against his. He grunts, leaning forward, and when Zelda drops the tool - he stands quickly, crashing his mouth to hers and palming every inch of her sweat-sheened flesh...

“Ah, nope!” Hilda snaps them back into the present moment and his heart is racing something fierce as he adjusts to his surroundings. “Nope, that’s quite enough of that,” she says, hands raised, eyes closed tight, and a grimace on her face.

His mind is still reeling as she stands and does a few small paces next to him, shaking her head, clearly mortified. Finally, she stops, resting her hand on the ledge of the table and sighs.

“I hope you found what you were looking for, Sister,” he says weakly, still exerted.

She raises a brow slightly, and gingerly returns to her seat. “I found a fair bit, love, yes.” 

Her tone is far too even and reserved for all they just witnessed, so he noticeably swallows before speaking. “And yet I’m still here. So you must have more questions, I’d gather.”

There’s a heavy silence. An anticipatory beat.

She tilts her head, looking at him with a mix of pity and disdain. “Did you ever love my sister?”

He doesn’t expect the question and at first – doesn’t know how to answer. Some of the memories Hilda had searched through just moments ago pass through his consciousness again. They all stir something in him, something fond and familiar and far away. But he’s denied himself of that very something for so long that it’s second nature to continue doing so now. “I don’t k-,” suddenly a searing pain shoots up his spine, accompanied by a gripping at the base of his neck and a tight squeezing sensation in his head.

“Oh dear,” Hilda says softly. “Appears you weren’t being honest.”

Faustus screams and his body thrashes against the restraints – by Satan, he’s never felt pain so intense. His mental exhaustion doing nothing to help save him (she’d clearly meant to wear him down), he continues to abstain from answering and it only increases – skin now ablaze as if fire itself were set to it. He yells again, gritting his teeth, sweat forming across his brow, fists clamped so tight that he breaks his own flesh – and then suddenly, it stops. He gasps, eyes snapping open, desperately sucking in air as he looks thoroughly gob smacked.

Hilda tuts, calling his attention back over to her, who he looks at with silent pleading. “I’ll ask you again, dear – did you ever love my sister?”

He pauses a moment, involuntary tears welling in his eyes, his throat hoarse from screaming. Reluctantly, he nods, “Yes,” and she gives him a teary smile as she nods back.

“Yes,” she repeats. “I thought so.”

She pats his shoulder as she stands again, walking towards the cupboards on the far side of the room. “In fact... I knew so. Can you take a guess as to why, Brother Blackwood?”

His change in title gives him a hint, but he dare not speak. A cabinet door closes and she continues, “You see - I wasn’t often kept in the loop of things. My eldest brother being high priest and my sister being... well, Zelda,” she laughs softly as she approaches, “Many times, I had no clue what my family was up to and that bothered me. Because I love my family.”

He sighs now. Yes, of course - the perpetual Spellman bond, he’d heard this speech many times before ad nauseam.

“I loved my brother very much, he made a fine high priest, but I will admit... Edward wasn’t always as keen as you,” she sets a small box on the counter and opens the lid. 

“He didn’t realize, for example - just how many times I’d plundered his mind once he finally caught on. All the things he’d planned... all the people he loved... and all those he hurt.”

“I’m loathe to interrupt such a captivating story, Sister Hilda, but I do hope you’ll get to the point soon,” he says with a huff.

“Ah, I will, I will,” she smiles sweetly. “Patience, dear.”

He clenches his fist, face strained.

“Back to who Edward hurt... “ and now she’s by his side again, “You were one of them, weren’t you, love?”

He twists his face in dissent, but it doesn’t deter her. “I saw him refuse you when you asked for my sister’s hand. I saw how it tore you up... and what you perhaps didn’t know before is that it tore Zelda up, too.”

He feels the sting of emotion build sharp behind his heart again, and he swallows what feels like the beginnings of tears in his throat with an audible gulp.

“I thought... ” her own emotions seem to take over now as warm tears well in her eyes, her sentences fragmented, “And she’d been so unhappy for so many years, you see. That’s why I called you to us. To speak with Sabrina before her dark baptism.”

He looks at her curiously. “Wh-“

“Oh darling - you don’t think we really needed you to help convince her to sign her name?” she huffs out a laugh. “No, her father was a high priest, her parents made their wishes clear for her to take the path of night, and she would have never even hesitated... had it been Zelda, Ambrose, and I who counseled her.”

“Then why,” he whispers with genuine curiosity, “What purpose did I serve?”

She smiles again, a few tears dropping onto her cardigan. “You were supposed to make my sister happy. You were supposed to love her. Like you once did. ... But you don’t really even know what that is anymore, do you?”

“It’s a weakness,” he says plainly, eyes cast upwards.

“Oh,” she says fondly. “And yet it’s love who’s trapped a lord of darkness, saved a coven of witches from the brink of death by poison - the strength of love among us is what tracked you down and brought you here. Curious.”

“These words mimic the False God, Sister.”

“I’m not sure there’s a God who isn’t false anymore, Brother,” she counters, “But family... friendship... love... there’s nothing more true on this Earth and beyond.”

He hates it, but something inside him finds logic to what she says and it’s almost as if said something he’d long-since buried is reaching out to grasp him, help him remember it... But it doesn’t come to him and then he’s back in a cold, dark, damp cadaver room with the same hollow, flickering light.

“You expect to convert me, then?” he laughs mockingly.

She chuckles, too, reaching into the box she’d set on the counter earlier. “No dear, I expect you to suffer.”

His face darkens and he purses his lips. 

“You don’t think this was the first time I’d taken a peak into your mind, did you? ... No, I saw quite a few things while you slept, darling.”

It’s then he sees in her hand a large black spider - her familiar if he remembers correctly - and his expression hardens, though his breathing noticeably speeds up.

“You demanding my niece’s head, framing my nephew... your honeymoon,” she looks at him now with true disdain. “It is quite amazing the challenges the Dark Lord gives us... gave us,” she corrects herself, “We’ve all endured such pain, wouldn’t you agree?”

She seems to want an answer from him, but he keeps his gaze fixed to the ceiling. “Pain can make people do horrible things. Isn’t that odd? Hurt making more hurt,” she sets the spider down gently on his stomach and he looks down at it in nervous anticipation. It doesn’t move.

“Except... it doesn’t always happen that way, does it? No, when we’re hurt - we have choices. We don’t have to cause others pain to soothe our own - we can choose to break the cycle. And if we’ve _already_ caused pain,” more spiders crawl up the table onto his body now, “We can choose to learn and do what we can to right our wrongs.”

She’s offering him something, he can tell, and one of the spider’s legs twitches expectantly. “What do you want from me, Sister?”

“It’s not just what I want, dearie. But let’s say you’ve got some serious thinking to do. Which, for now - for my niece, for my nephew, for my sister, and for the coven you left for dead - can be done,” she lowers her voice to just above a whisper, “After you’ve served your penance.”

All at once, the spiders scattered across his body sink their fangs into his skin, ripping a shocked scream from his lips, which echoes out into the hallway where Ambrose and Melvin are listening carefully by the door.

After several more minutes, Hilda emergesand Ambrose catches one wide-eyed glimpse of Father Blackwoods lifeless body cocooned in layers of white webbing and her spiders continuing to twitch about on his legs. Hilda’s holding the same box from before, but the top’s closed and there are clearly no spiders inside, and she hands it off to Ambrose, who looks at her with confusion.

“Toss this in the pit with his body before covering him in soil,” she says plainly.

“Auntie... ?” Ambrose says, sharing a tense glance with Melvin.

She laughs, amused, and her spiders start following her down the hall single-file. “Well, how else will it re-attach itself, boys? Honestly... “

Ambrose and Melvin look down at the box in horror, back over to Hilda, and then each other.

“But do be quick - dinner’s ready at 7,” she gives one last chuckle and then scurries off, leaving Ambrose and Melvin frozen in amazed shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there is any confusion, she did indeed cut off his... yeah. Next chapter will be Prudence and Sabrina and will hopefully be up much sooner than this last one. Thanks for reading!


	3. Prudence and Sabrina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his second visit back from the grave now, he’s slower in his speech and movement – his hair wild, eyes bloodshot, and the shadow of a beard forming across his face. So it takes him a moment to speak and he glances at Hilda in the corner, sighing in exhaustion over her latest invasion through his memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna be real - I thought this was gonna be my easy, filler chapter, but this one took the strongest emotional toll as of yet. lol So fair warning.

_He’d met her halfway across the bridge between Greendale and Riverdale, the sky threatening to open up at any moment with gentle thunder echoing around him. Her letter had indicated a sense of urgency, but when he arrived and saw her standing in her normal cloak, her back to him, and peering over the edge to look at the river – it appeared there was nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until she turned to face him and he saw the small bundle of blankets in her arms. In them was a sleeping babe no more than a month old – breathing soft and shallow. She had perfect pouty lips that pursed while she slept, gorgeous caramel skin, and a thick tuft of raven hair atop her head._

_ Her daughter, she’d explained.  **His** daughter._

_ At first, he’d balked at the suggestion – narrowing his eyes and berating her for implying he’d fathered a bastard child. He may have enjoyed the warmth of many a bed, but he was far from ever being  that careless. But then when she’d explained – the timeframe was undeniable and even when he still wanted to refuse the idea, he saw a flash of familiarity when she placed the babe in his arms and she looked up at him. He knew those eyes, he’d seen them before – the same piercing, knowing gaze he often saw from his mother._

_ So he reluctantly relented, attempted to give the babe back to her, started quoting figures of money he would send to aid in her care and upbringing. But she didn’t accept, stepped back from him, and all but demanded he marry her instead._

_And that. That he simply could not do. He was already engaged to Constance – a match well-suited for his goals and ambitions and there was no way in heaven he would let that get derailed by one unfortunate mistake._

_So he refused, again trying to pass the child back to her, but instead she climbed atop the railing of the bridge. He cautiously approached her, attempted to reason with her, to use his singular gift of persuasion to get her feet back on the ground. She gave him one final look of utter heartbreak, whispered something to the effect of it being for the good of the child, and then jumped to her death in front of him as he shouted after her._

_As if on cue, the wind picked up around him and lightning crashed in the not-too-distant trees. The baby cried out, stretching her small limbs as she wriggled from under the blankets, and he’d never been more uncertain of what to do. He gently rocked her for a moment, stunned, and then she stared up at him – still teary, still frightened, but looking to him to make it better. Something took over him then. He’d never quite pinpoint what that something was, but it seemed to guide him and he felt there was no other choice, but to trust it. So he cradled his hand around the back of the babe’s head, hugging her into his shoulder, and carried her back to the steps of the Unseen Academy._

_It hadn’t been his intention at the time, though he knows it would’ve occurred to him eventually, but when he crossed the threshold of the Academy, it was as if the Dark Lord had too perfectly placed the opportunity for him not to take it._

_One of the servants had rushed to help him upon seeing the bundle in his arms and the state of his drenched clothes._

_“Satan help us… Another?” she’d said in surprise. “This’ll be the third this week.”_

_“What do you mean? Third what?” he’d asked, shrugging out of his soaked jacket and folding it over his arm._

_“We’ve had two other babes left to us the past few days,” she said solemnly, looking down at the fussing child. “Placed on the doorstep and abandoned like they were a basket of stale bread, the poor things.”_

_He’d paused for an extended moment, his mouth falling open slightly as he considered her words. An orphan. The Academy always took in orphaned witches. Never questioned or searched their parentage... It was almost too_ _convenient._

_Apparently, he’d stayed silent a touch too long for comfort because she gently laid her hand on his arm and he blinked back to her attention. “Professor? … Are you alright?”_

_He nodded. “Yes… On the doorstep, indeed… “ then he sighed in relief, but she thankfully took it as sympathy for the child. “Well, at least the parents were sensible enough to leave her where they knew she’d be cared for. We don’t turn away our own kind. She’ll be safe here… “_

_“Yes, Professor, I suppose she will,” she said quietly. “Lucky thing you were there to fetch her before the storm got too strong.”_

_“ ...Yes, quite lucky.”_

_She smiled at him. “I’ll take her to the infirmary and have Isadora bring some tea for you, sir.”_

_ “… Thank you,” and he knew she’d never understand the weight of his words when he said it._

****

“Why would you refuse her? Who was she?”

He raises his tired head to look at his daughter, now grown, as she stares at him with the same pain and uncertainty she did the night he met her. The same pleading for him to help her understand… to make it better.

On his second visit back from the grave now, he’s slower in his speech and movement – his hair wild, eyes bloodshot, and the shadow of a beard forming across his face. So it takes him a moment to speak and he glances at Hilda in the corner, sighing in exhaustion over her latest invasion through his memories. They sent her in with Prudence under the guise she was there to verify the truth of his statements, but he knew it was also because they dare not trust a Blackwood among one of their kin.

“Are you certain you wish to know?” his voice sounds weak and he feels as much, too, but she steps closer to him defiantly.

“Yes,” she says with a bite that can’t be missed.

He audibly exhales with a frail smile. “Very well,” and he locks eyes with her. “Your mother… was nothing more than a common slut. A whore. I paid for her… services when it pleased me to do so. As did many others.”

He sees the tears well in her eyes and her lips tighten before she speaks. “I see,” she whispers. “So you let her die as if she were nothing and threw me away because of your own carelessness.”

“Threw you away?” he says through gritted teeth. “If I’d wanted to do that, I could’ve tossed you in the water along after her.”

Hilda winces so hard that he can see it just from his peripheral view of her in the corner.

“And why didn’t you?” Prudence asks, tears running down her cheeks. “It would’ve certainly made things easier for you.”

“Indeed,” he grows a bit of strength now, his voice gaining the rich timbre it usually has. “You complicated everything. And I could’ve easily denied you for the rest of your life... “

“You DID deny me!” she snaps.

“Careful what you say, girl!” he’s practically snarling now. “Did I not ensure you a roof over your head and clothes on your back? Did I not teach you and guide you your entire life? I even made sure I was close to you, at your disposal - did you think it was for  _my_ comfort and pleasure that I was the first high priest in a century to live within the Academy walls?”

She shakes her head slowly, lip trembling, and grimaces as he continues.

“And what would you have me do instead? Marry a scarlet woman and be shunned? Lose the respect of the entire coven... risk my status...  and yours?” he barks. “Not claiming you was the most merciful thing I could have possibly done! Without that, you would have no protection... without that, I could’ve given you  _nothing_ ... “ 

“You think what you gave me instead was _something_?” Prudence gasps, followed by a loud sob, her emotions clearly overwhelming her. Hilda stands to try and comfort the girl, but she puts her hand up. “It is no wonder you have been bested so many times, father, when your view of things is so narrow - you don’t even see past the length of your own nose.”

“You may feel however you wish... _daughter_,” he says the last word in a hushed tone, “But you cannot say I did not care for you.”

They stare each other silently for the next several moments, matching expressions of hardness and resentment. And something else, too. (The same something from the night he carried her through the woods as a baby.)

*****

She doesn’t kill him. Only exhales sharply, fists balled up at her sides, and gives him one final look of tear-filled disgust before swinging the door open and marching from the room. It’s only when, a few hours later, he sees the Spellman girl squeeze Prudence’s shoulder and step through the door that he realizes she never intended to.

He’ll decide what to do with that knowledge later (if there is a later), but for now – he’ll have to deal with Edward’s spawn.

“Father Blackwood,” she says, jaw tight with her usual self-righteous smugness.

“Miss Spellman,” he gives a terse nod, smirking. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m waiting for my Aunt Hilda first,” she attends to be menacing, raising her chin for emphasis.

His body flinches in protest to the thought of being brain-scanned once again, but he barely shows it. He may be bound to unwilling honesty, but one thing he won’t do is give that brat the satisfaction.

As such, it’s almost comical when her next words are an attempt to do just that, slowly pacing in front of him with an air of superiority that he’s come to expect from her. “While we wait… out of curiosity - how does it feel to have fallen so far from grace?”

“I imagine you yourself would know,” he quips, sustaining the first true laugh he’s had in weeks.

Clearly not expecting that response, she stops and looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Me?” she points to her chest, and scoffs. “That’s bold considering I defeated the Dark Lord himself!”

“Wrong, girl!” he warns her. “Mr. Scratch defeated the Dark Lord, yours aunts defeated the Dark Lord, even your little mortal friends defeated him – but you… you stood by and did nothing… and now you want credit for it? That seems to be a running theme for you, Miss Spellman. You think yourself a hero, but in every triumph you claim – your little dramatics in the unholy court, your attempt to be Top Boy, - you have the work of someone else to thank for it.”

“And you?” she bites back. “Cursing your Judas boys to do your bidding and kill the Anti-Pope? Controlling my Aunt Zelda and making her destroy Leviathan ‘cause you were too cowardly to come do it yourself? So happy to reap the rewards of it, though... “

The dark chuckle that escapes his lips comes out of its own accord, and he smirks, “Perhaps we’re more alike than you think, then.”

“We couldn’t be more different,” she counters in a harsh whisper and it’s then that the door swings open for Hilda to saunter through. She pauses at the very apparent tension in the air and addresses Sabrina cautiously, “You alright, love?”

Sabrina nods quietly, then looks back a him, jaw tightened. “We were just catching up.”

“Ah,” Hilda says suspiciously, clicking the door closed, and smiling. “Well, okay then. ... Let’s crack on, shall we?”

She takes a seat in same corner as before, though notably her chair is pulled in closer to Sabrina, an ever protective aura cast on the child by her family for he reasons he’d never know why.

“Now that your assistances is here,” he gestures to Hilda, “I’ll ask again. What can I do for you, Miss Spellman?”

She seems cautious now the moment has arrived to ask the big questions and for all she’s been through the past year - the way her tongue darts out to nervously lick her lips reminds him that she’s still only 16. She may enjoy a display of power here and there, but underneath it all - she’s still just a confused child.

“When did you decide to begin helping the Princes of Hell?” she says, knitting her eyebrows together in an attempt to appear intimidating.

He sighs. “Around the start of the term at the Academy and shortly after the selection of Top Boy.”

“So you did summon them to mess with me?” she scoffs.

“No,” Hilda says, looking at Blackwood curiously and Sabrina glances at her questioningly. “No, he didn’t.”

“Your aunt’s right,” he gives a self-satisfied smile. “No, in fact - it was only after  _you_ summoned them in the desecrated church and they admitted to working of their own free will that I sought them out.”

Sabrina shakes her head slightly, face scrunched up in confusion.

“Yes, much like everything else, Miss Spellman - you created your own misfortunes... and brought this on yourself.”

“Oy,” Hilda snaps from the corner, eyeing him pointedly and it’s enough for him to purse his lips and behave.

“Why would you wish to work with them? What did you stand to gain?” she asks quietly.

“They knew the Dark Lord had created an heir,” he raises a brow to her. “And after several millennia of serving him so dutifully, they were, what one might call... _disappointed_ to know their hard work would go unrewarded.”

Hilda gasps softly as she clearly begins piecing things together.

“I, too, understand disappointment... lack of recognition,” he sees Sabrina’s lip tremble, “And so took an audience with them to hear their plight.”

“And,” Sabrina’s eyes glisten slightly, “What did they wish to do?”

He laughs, low and dark. “Is it not obvious? Destroy the false heir and take reign of the throne, of course.”

“And for you?” she asks quickly. “What did you get out of the deal?”

“... Reward and recognition,” his annunciates each word. “Along with the safety and security of our kind for the foreseeable.”

“Why would our kind be in danger? And why not seek an audience with me directly? I didn’t want the throne, which they would have known if-“

“You still don’t understand, girl!” he barks. “You think putting the Dark Lord in an indefinite slumber and handing off a ceremonial crown to his whore solved everything, but you still don’t even comprehend what you are!”

“Easy, Brother,” Hilda whispers, casting daggers at him, and then giving Sabrina a reassuring nod.

“What am I, then?” she asks smartly, throwing her hands up, and barely holding back her tears now. “Everyone always seems to know, but me - so please enlighten, Father Blackwood.”

He huffs, the exhaustion of the past several days beating down on him like bags of sand, but he feels a telepathic nudge from Hilda and takes a deep breath before continuing. “You were told your creation as a half-mortal/half-witch was the antithesis to the birth of Christ, yes?”

The girl nods.

“But the False God’s son was born of a mortal woman - his creation - and himself. Thus, a true antithesis would be for the Dark Lord to sire a child from a witch - his creation - and himself. Not a mortal.”

A single tear falls down the girl’s face and she swallows before speaking. “I don’t... I don’t understand. Why would he... with my mother... why her, then?”

“Your father...  _Edward_ ,” he corrects himself, “Was no fool. And he was, above all else - an idealist. He sought more than any before him to merge the witch and mortal worlds to one. Peace and harmony,” he mocks with disdain.

“How does that... ?” she shakes her head, not understanding.

“Oh, foolish child,” he sighs, “Do you not see you are living proof that such a thing can exist? Your duality doesn’t denounce God nor Satan... it marries them. A representation that witches and mortals are of the same origin and thus - can co-exist without fear or aggression.”

He thinks he sees her smile slightly among the flow of tears. “So my father sacrificed having me to save humanity?”

“I’ve no knowledge of your father’s motivations, but it would seem so,” he says and she nods staring off fondly, “ ...and it would be foolish of him entirely.”

She frowns, Hilda pursing her lips and gripping the hem of her cardigan, and Sabrina steps in closer, chest heaving. “Because he thought of something you didn’t? Because he would have a legacy that would eclipse yours and any of the Blackwoods before you?”

“Because it is reckless!” he roars. “Pure folly! Many attempts have been made to carry out such nonsense in the past and it’s always ended in bloodshed. Your father knew that and risked it, anyway - risked us all! The mortals always resent our powers and turn it into fear and then total destruction.”

“Sounds familiar,” she whispers harshly, and he feels the wind knocked out of him momentarily. “And there’s exactly where you and I are different,” she leans in, “I see the value of a greater good... even if we’re at odds.”

Hilda gets up and gently lays her hands over Sabrina’s arms. “I think you’ve had enough, love.”

“I’m not done,” she replies weakly.

“Darling... “

“Let her speak, sister,” he says, staring into her eyes with resolve he’s not felt since... well, since Edward died.

“I’m fine, Auntie,” the girl says softly and Hilda reluctantly releases her, kissing her cheek and stepping back for her to continue.

“Just a couple more things, Blackwood,” and he nods. “What did you do to my Aunt Zelda?”

“NO!” Hilda interrupts, reprimanding her with a harsh glare. “Sabrina, I warned you ahead of time. That’s not yours to know.”

The girl gives a resigned huff of a breath and turns back. She takes two steps closer to him, stares at him a moment.

“Did you kill my parents?” she says softly.

“No,” he whispers.

Sabrina looks to Hilda and the older woman nods, “It’s true, love.”

She quietly turns after giving him an appraising look and nodding. “Good,” she says and reaches for the door.

He’s just about to be shocked he’s leaving this session unscathed, but he hears Hilda hurriedly whisper “Sabrina, no” and with a snap of the girl’s fingers... so too was his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope this made some sense and that we can all agree on one thing - Prudence deserves protection and parently love.
> 
> The next chapter will be up soon-ish and I’ve saved the best for last. Zelda will get her moment, too. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Zelda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes the figure a moment to walk into view, but when it does – the first thing he sees is a cascade of golden red hair and as his eyes wander – he notices the curve of her waist and her slim legs supported by the most insensible, but beautiful heels. She stops a few feet away from him and looks at him with a dangerously serene smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got way too long for one chapter, so - once again - I’ve had to extend it and break it up into two more chapters. 🙃 So sorry.

When he awakens the next day, he’s no longer in the Spellman house, though it doesn’t take long for him to recognize the area. The stone table in front of him, the surrounding wood – he’s been brought to the Church’s ceremonial grounds in the Greendale forest. Looking down, he sees himself bare-chested and his arms bound behind him against a wooden stake.

The symbolism is all too familiar – have they arranged for witch hunters to come burn him? Perhaps he’ll be crucified as a heretic? Who’s to say as there seems to be no other soul in his presence. Perhaps they just intend for him to freeze.

The cold air bites at his skin and he makes one feigned attempt at testing his bindings. They’re perfectly too strong, of course, especially for a thrice dead man. No matter. He’s not sure where he would even go at this point – if there’s been no rescue attempt by his partners in crime, they’ve surely deemed him unnecessary to the cause… expendable.

_Luke_ , he remembers and smiles to himself at the bitter irony. Eye for an eye, then… he did always love a full circle defeat. In fact, he’s all too ready to welcome it. He’s drained, worn down, and he can’t possibly wonder what else the Spellmans et al could want from him. He’s grown tired of this game, so very tired… and he just wants to rest. His eyes have just begun to close and his skin begins to shiver when he hears the cracking of footsteps among the leaves.

It takes the figure a moment to walk into view, but when it does – the first thing he sees is a cascade of golden red hair and as his eyes wander – he notices the curve of her waist and her slim legs supported by the most insensible, but beautiful heels. She stops a few feet away from him and looks at him with a dangerously serene smile.

“Zelda,” he whispers and his heart leaps at saying her name. Though he knows the circumstances are far from in his favor, she is the most familiar soul to him that he’s seen in weeks and just being in her presence is enough to have involuntary tears well up in his eyes. Even if she’s here to torture him into oblivion – which he counts on it that she is – there is a relief he feels now that she’s here.

“Faustus,” she states back plainly.

He breathes deeply a few moments, staving off the emotion that threatens to bubble over. “Come to punish me, dear? ... Like old times?” he quips weakly.

She smirks and steps closer, close enough that if his wrists weren’t tied impossibly tight, he could reach out and bury his hand in her gloriously soft hair, which is precisely what his body is yearning to do at present.

“Something like that,” she says.

“Indeed?” he gives a tight smile. “Shall I confess my sins? Submit to inquisition? I think I know the drill by now,” he says, gaining a bit more strength to be bold.

“Hm,” she smiles, only an inch between them now and he feels himself shiver not of the cold for once. She’s wearing that fur-lined brown coat she’s so fond of, but it and the blouse beneath are cut low enough for him to catch an enticing view of her alabaster skin. “I already know plenty about your sins, darling.”

She looks up into his eyes on her last word and presses herself against his bare chest. “Don’t I, Faustus?” her breath is warm against his neck as her fingers glide up along his collar bone, the fur of her coat soft and warm, and his eyes flutter closed at the sensation.

“Y… Yes,” his breathing has become noticeably deeper.

“Correct,” she whispers against his ear, her knee brushing against his inner thigh.

Of all the torture he’s endured the past several days, this will surely be the most unbearable. He quite literally aches to touch her, to kiss her as she passes her lips just above his without contact, and he feels the unpleasant tightness in his trousers as she mercilessly presses her hip against his groin.

She looks down at his chest, circling the tattoo there – a depiction of the Blackwood family crest – and he takes the opportunity to breathe in the sweet scent of her hair.

“I remember when this was the only one you had,” she says softly, turning her chin back up to his face.

His voice shakes from cold and… discomfort, “That was a long time ago.”

“Indeed, it was – but we’ve known each other that long. And you were rather different then, weren’t you, darling? Weren’t we both?” her nails scratch softly down his stomach to just above his belt. “Young and naïve?”

His hips buck involuntarily and he thinks he hears her chuckle softly. “I suppose we were,” his resolve is all but hanging on by a thread now.

“It was a reckless game we played, yes?” her nails scratch just the slightest bit deeper now, and she drags her teeth over the pulse point of his throat. “Though I used to love it,” she purrs, “How we’d torture each other… hurt each other. Did you?”

He feels almost dizzy, every nerve in his body straining for relief, to touch her, to claim her. “I did,” he exhales.

“We were good together, I always thought so,” her own breathing becomes slightly faster, her nose brushing against his, her lips mere centimeters away, every inch of him waiting to feel her mouth on his. “And then you broke the rules, didn’t you?”

His eyes open wide and she glances up at him through soft lashes before casting her eyes back down to their nearly joined lips. “Zelda…” it comes out almost remorseful.

“You hurt me, Faustus,” she whispers against his mouth. “You hurt me without my permission.”

The mix of sensations and adrenaline and lust overwhelms him and he can’t even focus on anything except how much he wants her. All the memories Hilda dug up, all the past he’s had to face and he remembers how she was in every corner of it. She’s been the one constant his entire life and it’s taken him being completely at her mercy now to see that while she has never needed anyone to be the pillar of strength she always is, he - on the other hand - would be nothing without her. So he wants to fall to his knees for her, to wrap his arms around her waist and hold her, but he knows he never will again and Satan fuck, he is nearly sobbing as he remembers all he’s done. “I’m sorry, Zelda,” he murmurs, and he means it, he truly does. But it doesn’t matter and he knows it. His chest heaves with emotions he long-since thought were lost and it hurts more than any poison or blade of a knife he’s endured this entire week.

“That’s nice,” she says quietly, then performs one last bit of sweet torture by brushing her lips lightly over his and abruptly pulling back before he can savor it... and he physically aches at the loss of her touch. “But Faustus,” he looks up at her, wounded and battered and wanting, “You may call me... ‘Your Excellency’.”

He stares at her stunned as she walks to the stone table and rolls out what appears to be a leather bound scroll.

“What do you have left to want from me?” he asks brokenly and she glances up at him expectantly. “Please...  _your Excellency_, if you wish me to talk just say so.”

“No,” she says plainly, “You’ve done quite enough talking. It’s time for you to listen.”

“Surely you at least want to know where to find the twins,” he offers weakly.

She raises her eyebrow and smiles at him with pity. “I’ve had the twins since the day after you were found, Faustus.”

His mouth becomes dry and his pupils dilate until his eyes are nearly black. That was one of his few remaining bargaining chips and - not that he has much fight left in him - but knowing that’s no longer a card in his hand feels even more sobering.

“Where are they?” he asks quietly. “Where are my children?”

“Your children,” she looks at him sadly. “Funny you should say that.”

“Zel-“ he starts exhaustedly, then catches himself. “Your Excellency, I haven’t the strength for guessing games anymore.”

She surveys him for a moment and then relents. “You know, as her midwife, there was always something...  _strange_ about Constance’s pregnancy. Being years out of practice, I chalked it up to needing to refresh my skills,” she leans against the edge of the table, a paper from the scroll in hand.

“When I’d informed her she was expecting twins and of their anticipated sex, she didn’t seem surprised nor taken aback like the many mothers I’d helped like her before. But again - I thought little of it, as I admit I was... distracted by other things at the time,” she gives him a pointed look.

“But after you went missing, we searched through your chambers and offices and found this,” she walks up to him and holds the document between them. It appears to be a report signed by a mortal doctor and grainy images of two babes from one of their medical machines he’s unfamiliar with. At the top of the images is a date - a date two months before Constance informed him she was even expecting.

“What is this?” he asks, heart pounding.

“Do you know the average gestation period for a mortal pregnancy, Faustus?”

“No.”

“It’s nine months. When my niece was born, we thought she was early, but it turned out - by her mortal side - she was right on time. Do you recall at what month in Constance’s pregnancy she delivered the twins?” Zelda makes concerted eye contact with him.

“... What are you saying?” his voice choked from the sudden tightening in his chest.

“I think you already know,  _dearest_ . .... It seems you weren’t the only voracious slut among the two of you.”

He takes a few breaths and then laughs softly, incredulous. “No, that’s not possible.”

“I assure you it is,” without missing a beat, she walks back to the table to grab another document.

He feels himself become dizzy and nausea begin to build in his belly. This can’t be... his twins... his son... he has a son... Judas is  _his_ son.

She reappears in front of him and holds out the document - this one a confusing display of numbers and graphs, and he looks at her overwhelmed and bewildered.

“The mortals, they... “ she says hesitantly. “They may not possess our power, but they have found ways to learn about themselves.  _This_,” she points to a particular graph, “is their version of a paternity test... and there’s not a trace of you in it.”

He scans over it as if he has any understanding of what it says, searching for something to justify his doubt. “And what of our tests?” he asks in a broken whisper, though he knows it... oh, he just knows.

She sighs. “I thought you’d ask that. ... We’ve yet to perform the spell.”

“Then this is worthless,” despite the chill in the air, sweat forms across his brow. “It counts for nothing if we don’t use our ways.”

Zelda softens slightly, reaches her hand up, and gently strokes the side of his face. “It’s not going to change anything, Faustus.”

“Don’t patronize me,” though he sounds near to accepting defeat. “If it won’t change, then what will it hurt?”

She takes a deep breath, considering him, and then curls her hand behind his neck. Softly, she reaches up into his hair and then roughly pulls a small patch of it out without warning or mercy. He grunts through his teeth and then watches her quickly materialize a girl holding the babe that would be his son in front of them.

“Thank you, Elspeth,” she says, taking him from her.

“I had him prepared just in case... as you suspected, your Excellency,” and the girl casts a glare in Faustus’ direction.

“Very good,” she smiles at her, “Could you help me hold him still on the table?”

“Yes, ma’am,” and she gently cradles the boy’s head as Zelda lays him atop the stone table. Almost as soon as his back hits the surface, the babe lets out a cry that for the first time since he was born, pierces deep in Faustus’ chest and salts the freshly opened wound.

“Shhh, yes I know, darling,” Zelda coos, “It’ll be very quick, just hold still for mummy, alright?”

A flash of the life they might’ve had washes over him - he and Zelda, their potential children, what they might’ve had and been- and knowing now he may not even have been granted the second best version of that... he may well be weeping. Silently, but surely.

Zelda continues - summoning a small pair of clippers and snipping one of the curly locks from the babe’s forehead. “Ah, there’s my good, brave boy,” she says, picking him up and kissing the top of his head, “All done, my darling.”

Handing him over to Elspeth, she says in a hushed tone, “Return him to his sister and then tell the others it’s time.”

Before he can process what that might mean, she’s standing before him again and the girl, with the babe, has vanished.

He must have slumped down slightly because she appears to tower over him now, and the way she’s looking at him is as if he’s a weakened animal.

“Shall I?” she says, holding his and Judas’ hair in the palm of her hand.

He nods silently, eyes glistening.

“Alright,” and she whispers a spell as she lets the hairs fall. If they’re kin, they’ll gravitate to each other and land in one stacked lock. But as he watches the first strands slide from her hand - they seem to willfully scatter into every direction, falling into messy fragments on the ground and adding insult to injury with each piece.

His knees threaten to buckle as the wind gets knocked out of him and an involuntary wretch leaves his lips. “No.”

“I’m afraid so,” she whispers, “Half-mortal, half-witch... zero Blackwood,” and his bindings mercifully allow enough give for him to fall to his knees on the ground. So this was it, then... the final way to break him. And they surely had.

She crouches down to his level, lifts his chin with her hand. He must look such a state and he feels almost feral, growling out weakly, “This must be a sweet revenge, dear. To leave me with nothing?”

“Faustus, darling,” she says quietly. “This has nothing to do with revenge. This is not the product of what I nor anyone else wanted. No, _much like everything else, you created your own misfortunes here... and brought this on yourself_.”

The words he’d said to Sabrina the day before echo in his head and he lets out a primal scream from deep within in his throat. He feels anger, pure rage - but every attempt to direct it somewhere leads back to him. Because she’s right - he’d failed.  _He_ had. As a father, as a high priest, a husband, a friend, a mentor... he’d ruined it all.

“This wasn’t always you,” she says, kneeling and pressing her hands on his shoulders. “You chose a path just like we all did.”

“Zelda,” he strains his face forward, wanting desperately to bury it in her neck and seek her comfort. But she leans back from him, captures his face with her hands and forces him to look at her.

He’s surprised to see her eyes glistening. “Hilda told me... that you said you loved me once. I thought I’d tell you, while we have time, that I loved you once, too.”

“I st-“

“No,” she cuts him off curtly. “Don’t mistake me. Forgiveness isn’t really one of my emotions, and now certainly isn’t the time for it to start being.”

He nods. “Alright,” he says weakly.

“We were both different people long ago, Faustus, and had we not... had so many things not gone wrong, and had you not been... so  _bloody stupid_,” one warm tear runs down her cheek, “Well, who knows what we’ve have now.”

“ ... I understand,” he whispers, “I understand, your Excellency.”

Her lip trembles and she scoffs out a resentful sob as her eyes close tight.

“You’ll be a good mother to them,” he says and her eyes snap back open in surprise. “To my twins. And my daughter.”

“They’re not-“

“They’re as much mine as Sabrina is yours,” he looks at her with soft eyes to show he’s not trying to instigate. “You’ll raise them as well as you did her.”

Her hands are gripping the sides of his neck and she purses her lips, shaking her head slightly, her eyes pained and angry. “... Damn you, Faustus.”

He hangs his head, exhales sharply, “I’m sor-“ but his words are cut off by the firm press of her lips against his. It’s a frenzied moment he can barely register before she’s pulling away and rising to her feet, but he knows it happened - that, if nothing else, he got to kiss his wife goodbye - and that’ll be enough. It has to be.

“Auntie,” Ambrose appears behind her, touching her back. “Are you alright?”

She’s always had a talent for fixing herself up quickly and by the time she turns to face the boy, she may as well have been enjoying tea and biscuits by all appearances. “Yes Ambrose, thank you, I’m fine.”

The boy gives him an untrusting look, but then follows after her as she steps towards the other side of the stone table. Another figure is present, but he can’t see past Zelda or Ambrose to get a glimpse of who they might be. There are a few hushed whispers and then he hears someone walking forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. It’s complicated. Perhaps a bit rushed in parts, too, but I... just know there’s more. People awaiting the strong fist of justice - you shall have it, with a full explanation, soon... I promise. Thanks for reading!


	5. The High Priestess, The Queen, and Their People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this will be a “love it or hate it” scenario and most will probably hate it, but if you’ve been here for the long-haul - I hope it was enjoyable at some point or another. Thanks for sticking with me!

“My, my, my,” the cool, serene voice of Lilith washes over him like a razor blade and he stiffens. He sees she’s still favoring the appearance of the Wardwell woman she killed and he’d be lying if he didn’t find it unsettling, but it’s far from a shock to see her here finally. “What a situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“To your satisfaction, I’m sure,” he says tersely.

“Hm,” she shrugs, slinking around the post he’s tied to, “I’d have been much more satisfied to find you were even a fraction as difficult to track down as you’d once suggested. In actuality, it was far too easy… “ she stops in front of him, “and thus, wholly disappointing.”

“My apologies for not living up to your expectations, madam,” he mocks.

She raises a brow with a twinkle in her eye, “No apology owed to me. You betrayed the Dark Lord, your coven, and… your family.” She glances back at Zelda and Ambrose briefly. “If any words of remorse are relevant – it’s only to them.”

He steels his face and stares straight ahead in resentment.

“But it’s not words that are wanted. It’s actions that matter... would my high priestess agree?” she turns on her heel towards Zelda.

“Yes, my Queen,” she replies without hesitation and the woman walks over to her to squeeze her arm in what he imagines must be an attempt at sympathy.

“Which is what’s brought us here,” her lips curve into a devious smile and she points her finger to the table where a white sheet has appeared with what seems to be three objects underneath.

“I take that mean you are here to enact my final judgement?” he looks past her to Zelda, but she’s purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“Why no,” she laughs softly. “After all, I’m just – what was it – ‘a whore in a crown’?”

His shoulders tense and his temple pulses.

“Well, this whore holds dominion over the kingdom of Hell now and rest assured – once you join me there, I’ll treat you as I see fit, but before you do – know this, dear Blackwood: You may have attempted to stage a coup and you would have been right to do so under Lucifer’s reign, but you will not challenge me. No soul nor creature of the pit will ever move me. And – just to make that clear,” she breezes over to the table and grips the sheet atop it, ripping it from the surface, “take this as fair warning.”

His mouth falls open as the drop of the sheet reveals the severed heads of Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Purson. It’s no doubt why no one came for him – his would-be masters have been completely eliminated. He wonders if a resistance exists at all now.

As if reading his thoughts, Lilith continues. “As with any ruler – there will be an opposed. But I would take heed as I offer a… _different_ style of leadership. One that shares power, not demands it. As such, the loyalties of those who support me remain firm as stone.”

“Did your high priestess not just call you ‘Queen’?” he counters.

“Faustus,” Zelda warns, but Lilith nods reassuringly to her.

“Indeed. But titles are formalities. Words.” She chuckles, low and dark and a thick fog begins to settle over the ground. “And as we’ve established – words mean nothing over action.”

“And what ‘action’ do you intend to take?” he’s clearly frustrated now – tired, broken, and defeated.

She grins. “Ask those with the  _power_ to take it.”

He knits his brows together, confused and wanting an end to this charade.

“I told you I have dominion over Hell, but witches now have dominion over Earth. I offer my guidance and protection as their Queen, but they otherwise possess what was promised to them from the moment of their creation – free will. Therefore, I have no say in your punishment while you remain here,” she gives a quick look to Ambrose, who begins whispering a spell. “I can only offer ideas and it’s up to them on how to proceed.”

The spell Ambrose is speaking becomes louder and the fog rapidly dissipates to reveal the entire coven of the former Church of Night just on the edge of the clearing. His breathing speeds up and when he casts his eyes to his wife, this time Zelda looks back at him with a mix of sorrow and purpose.

Lilith, on the other hand, couldn’t look more delighted – though she resigns herself to the sidelines next to Ambrose and gives the floor to Zelda respectfully.

She steps on the side of the table opposite him, standing at the head of the coven, and smoothes the front of her coat before speaking.

“Faustus Blackwood,” her voice resonates through the wood – firm and steady, “You stand accused of crimes against the witches of our coven,” he scans the faces of those in the crowd, and finds not one friend among them. As he made it… as he deserves it to be. “These crimes include abuse of power,” Prudence clenches her fist at her side, “false imprisonment,” Elspeth narrows her eyes, “enslavement of witches,” Agatha and Dorcas join hands, “… mind control,” Zelda raises her chin and closes her eyes for barely a second to take a breath, “and attempted mass murder.”

She allows a moment for it to sink in. “Do you confess to these crimes?”

His eyes have wandered to the scattered leaves of the ground around him and his bindings bite sharply into his wrists from his body weight leaning away from the post he’s tied to. “I do,” he says softly, but loud enough they can hear, evidenced by the hushed whispers of anger.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” she asks.

“No,” he whispers.

“I have something to say!” a voice calls from the crowd and a young boy steps forward - one of his former Judas Boys, Sebastian, who stumbles forward just behind Zelda. “That is – if I may, your Excellency,” he addresses her with a slightly bowed head.

She gives an affirming look and lets him step forward, clasping her hands together at her front.

“I want to know,” he says, voice tattered with emotion somewhere between anger and regret. “We served you so faithfully, Father. We believed in you. And you left us for dead… Why?”

His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths as he makes tense eye contact with the boy, unsure how to begin.

“Answer him, Faustus,” Zelda demands, Hilda poking through to the front to stand just behind her sister and giving him a dark look.

His jaw tightens and he lowers his gaze again. “I’d been delivered news that the apocalypse was upon us – that the False God’s angels would be descending to Earth to destroy our kind and defeat our Dark Lord,” he looks up to the boy, “Massacre by angels would result in lost souls – as it’s not just your body they destroy. With my faith in the Dark Lord fading and my trust that Hell would soon be overseen by those in our best interest, I released you of the Earthly bindings which would have otherwise subjected you to destruction.”

“Lies!” a voice shouts and murmurs of assent echo around it.

“No,” Ambrose steps forward. “He cannot lie. We ensured it.”

Hilda stares at him intently, he feels her eyes boring into him, and she opens her mouth slightly to speak, then quickly closes it, staying silent.

Sebastian eyes Ambrose skeptically, “You think your spells are infallible, Spellman? He rivals Lucifer himself in trickery, which you should know!”

“Indeed, I do know,” Ambrose grits out. “You forget I was there when Lucifer was captured. Which is why I do not say it lightly… he speaks the truth because  _he_ _has no other choice_ .”

“That’s enough,” Zelda says, hands raised between the two boys with a light of gold emanating from them to force them apart. “Ambrose, step aside. Brother Dean, rejoin the others.”

They reluctantly obey and Zelda straightens herself, addressing both Faustus and the coven now. “This is not a trial – we are well aware of the crimes Brother Blackwood  _has just admitted to_ . The reasons why have no impact now. So unless anyone has something of value to say, we will continue with our original purpose here.”

“I quite agree,” Lilith gives a pointed look to the witches and warlocks behind Zelda, stifling any further desire to cause unrest.

Zelda looks only at Faustus now, stepping forward and resting her fingertips on the edge of the stone table as Lilith waves her hand to vanish the three heads of the demon princes.

“You have proven yourself dangerous to your fellow witches and as such, you are no longer trusted to remain in this coven,” she says. “Nor can you be allowed to spread further pain and suffering to other covens.”

She’s purposefully posturing, steeling her expression into blankness, and that – more than anything else – is what causes the sting of tears to prick at his eyes again.

He holds just enough resolve to ask with dignity, “How is my final death to be carried out?”

“_Death_?” Lilith interjects. “Oh no, Blackwood… there will be no more killing. For now, at least.”

His mind begins reeling. Then what is all this? He surely must be letting the building panic show on his face, darting his gaze from Lilith to Zelda in pure confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Lilith chuckles. “Of course you don’t. As I said to you once before – you men… always resorting to brute force. Violence. Murder. There’s no elegance to it – no nuance. No  _satisfaction_ . … This coven is owed some satisfaction.”

Zelda moves to stand by her Queen, and it’s she who explains further. “The fall of the Dark Lord imprisoned an innocent – a volunteer who sacrificed himself in order to contain Lucifer and liberate others. Such a fate was undeserved and unjustified.”

Faustus swallows to keep his dry throat from seizing as he waits for the final puzzle piece to fit into place.

Sabrina now shuffles forward between Ambrose and Hilda, reaching for their hands as Lilith again begins murmuring a summoning spell. With a few more seconds of rushed Latin, a flash of light bursts atop the table and it’s then that young Mr. Scratch’s body materializes.

Faustus had only known that Nicholas had a hand in Lucifer’s downfall, but details had always escaped him. To see the boy unconscious, but otherwise intact in front of him is both alarming and amazing in equal measures.

He glances past him to catch a moment of Sabrina’s tears, gripping fiercely onto Hilda’s arm and resting her head on her shoulder.

Zelda’s gaze is in the same direction, her lip quivering as she turns her head back from her family. She steps forward, gives a nervous glance to the boy’s body, then looks at him.

“Mr. Scratch currently holds the Dark Lord within him. He offered himself selflessly in dire circumstances and bound Lucifer to his body to stop the apocalypse and further exploitation of witches. The bond is fortified with a spelling spell, so that Lucifer - and Mr. Scratch - remain unaware of their imprisonment.”

He stares at the boy in stunned silence, and Zelda tells him everything else he needs to know by the look in her eyes.

“Is it clicking into place, Blackwood?” Lilith taunts. “Unlike our former king, we do not seek to punish the guiltless nor demand their devotion through pain and suffering. Those with blood on their hands, however - must be taught a lesson.”

Zelda takes a deep breath, nodding to Lilith and then delivering his sentence with gut-wrenching evenness. “As punishment for your crimes, you - Faustus Blackwood - will take Mr. Scratch’s place in restraining the Dark Lord.”

His arms shake from the brisk of the cold and the weight of his bindings. “For how long?” he asks low.

“Indefinitely,” Lilith says.

His trips to the pit in the recent days are starting to feel less and less arduous in comparison. At least he’d been brought back alive, aware, and capable of free thought. Even if he did have to awake with a face of mud each day. This... an eternity of solitude and unconsciousness... it’s purely sinister but, as Lilith put it, so very elegant.

“Who decided this?” he wonders aloud, curious and angry.

“The coven agreed to this together,” Zelda says, and as if expecting him to challenge it, adding, “After much deliberation.”

Lilith circles behind Zelda, slowly, the two of them performing a near-perfect duet together as they pass the conversation between them. “Yes, they had many ideas about what to do with you - poison, dismemberment, breaking your neck... “

“Starvation!” a voice yells from the coven and he sees Elspeth’s face, positively murderous.

Lilith smiles, throwing her hand up to emphasize that her point had just been made. “That is, until a suggestion - which would free Mr. Scratch and discipline you accordingly - was brought to them.”

“ _Your_ suggestion, I presume?” he asks.

“Mine!” the tear-choked voice of Sabrina yells.

Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.

“Indeed, Miss Spellman offered this idea to resounding approval just last night,” Lilith grins.

“It is an even exchange, Faustus,” Zelda says softly, resolutely. “Everything has a price... For what you’ve done - this is yours.”

He hangs his head briefly, sighing out a heavy breath, then directs his eyes back up to her, scanning her face - rushing to memorize it and hold on to it before he enters his indefinite sleep. “When?” he asks.

“Now,” she whispers.

He nods, Lilith stepping forward to the coven, and he has her gaze for a few brief moments to himself until her eyes become glassy and she gasps softly before walking steadily away.

In seconds, the coven converges around him - all but the Spellmans and Prudence, who stay rooted at the edge of the clearing, watching it unfold... seemingly allowing the coven their own catharsis as they had theirs in private already.

One of the larger warlocks in the crowd reaches him, forcing him into a standing position and in the frenzy of it, he loses his sight of her. Next thing he registers is the soft chanting of the coven around him as Nick’s body begins to levitate and then he catches sight of her again. Turning away, Ambrose follows after her, her hair the only thing he can focus on. The only thing he _will_ focus on.

He just wants her to turn around – to see her one last time. Satan… Lilith… he’ll willingly spend an entire millennia in the pit if he can be granted this one last thing, please. “ZELDA!” he shouts and she doesn’t even slow her pace. “MY LOVE!”

She pauses to that and he thinks he sees the slight turn of her head, but then the Spellman boy puts his arm around her and they vanish.

****

Ambrose fumbles to the floor of the Spellman kitchen as he materializes from teleporting with his aunt in his arms. She immediately tries to put a small space between them, turns her head away, and brings up her hand to wipe at the tears that are surely running down her face. 

“Aunt Zee,” he says quietly, touching her shoulder and he hears a muffled sob. “Auntie,” he repeats, “It’s alright – we’re gone from the woods, you don’t have to see it.”

She nods slightly and looks at him, a pained, yet resolved expression on her face. He squeezes her shoulder lightly and then opens his arms to embrace her – his strong, formidable, unyielding Aunt Zelda who he knows is absolutely broken inside because she never accepts comfort this easily.

“My sweet boy… thank you,” she whispers and pats his back to signal she’s ready to detach herself, but he gathers some nerve as they’re separating and says, “Did you not want to tell him, Auntie?”

Her hand wipes a tear from her cheek as her mouth drops in feigned scorn. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean, Ambrose. Tell him what?”

“Auntie,” he whispers sympathetically, gently taking her hand with a soft, understanding glance. He guides their joined hands to just over her womb and places hers there, looking up at her cautiously and then giving an acknowledging nod of his head.

She stares at him a moment as tears build up in her eyes and her lip trembles. “Not a word to anyone.”

“Of course,” he says quietly, “But Auntie… “ and she looks at him almost pleadingly now to stop, “It’s alright if you’re happy.”

Her brows knit together and she lightly shakes her head in confusion. “What? I don’t know what you’re implying and Ambrose, this is really no way to talk to your High Priestess.”

“I am talking to my Aunt Zelda, who I love dearly, and who protected me my entire life. Only to say that if something she’s wanted for all  _her_ life has finally come to her… she can enjoy it,” he raises his brows for emphasis. “More than anyone I know, she deserves to enjoy it.”

She looks at him softly, shakes her head in denial. “He tried to kill you and your cousin. The entire coven. I could never forgive... “

“I’m not saying you have to,” Ambrose offers gently. “Do you forgive me for trying to blow up the Vatican? Or Sabrina for going into limbo for that mortal boy? ... Aunt Hilda for existing?”

She chuckles lightly to that, then quickly taps his arm in faux-disapproval.

“To be fair, Auntie... I tried to kill him, too. Did kill him. A few times,” he says. “And before you tell me that’s different - which I know - remember that Aunt Hilda poisoned Sister Shirley and our Queen Lilith risked the first born of mortal and witch alike all for personal gain. Not to mention her admittance to nearly poisoning a building full of mortals at the Baxter High dance.”

Zelda considers him silently.

“None of us are pure souls. None wholly good nor evil. And I am not suggesting we deem our past infractions acceptable or that we forgive our wrongdoings. But I am suggesting that even the darkest among us has the potential for redemption.”

She leans her head back on the cabinet she’s propped up against, and quietly takes his hand, squeezing it softly in gratitude. But he sees the conflict written over her face still and he needs her to understand.

“Aunt Zee, I know what you did today was for Sabrina,” he says.

“I did it for the coven,” she counters weakly.

“We both know that’s not entirely true. You have a history of sacrificing your desires and needs for those you love. I know you allowed yourself to lose something today in order to give it to someone else.”

She sighs, eyes closing with fresh tears forming in her eyes.

“And I don’t pretend to know how to solve it, Auntie, but you are allowed to want. And you are allowed to be happy. And if it’s up to me, I’ll see that you are in whatever way necessary.”

“My dear boy,” she squeezes his hand again, turning her head briefly to wipe her tears, then looking off into surrounding empty kitchen with a sigh. “I certainly don’t forgive you for that botched Vatican attempt.”

He laughs heartily and she smiles at him. “I didn’t think so, Auntie, I didn’t think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hated it, I’m sorry. If you liked it a touch - wow, bless you, thank you from my soul. 
> 
> The ending is a bit of a cop-out for a different prompt I got, asking for a pregnancy fic. I know this won’t be what you hoped for, but it’s best I can manage with my abilities tbh. 😬 Sorry!
> 
> Also - epilogue? Y/N? Might be in the works ‘cause I don’t know how to WHAT? Quit.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’m know-the-way on tumblr if you wanna come say hey there!


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